


Ironside and the Spell-Weaver

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Adult Bjorn, Björn Ironside - Freeform, Blood Magic, Great Heathen Army, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: Traveling with the avenging army of the sons of Ragnar is a sorceress. She knows the path before her is to help a great man achieve his fate, but will she find her own destiny as well?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although we know Bjorn is the founder of a dynasty, we know nothing of the woman he married. I know in the show he's with Torvi, but I'm pretty much ignoring that and going a little more with the sagas in this aspect. Partially inspired by the lack of mention of Bjorn's wife, partly by his nickname and how he came to have it, and partly by an essay I read about Viking battle magic, this is an idea I had about Bjorn's woman, here named Alfhild. 
> 
> Magic is thought to have been pretty important in the Viking religion, and I wanted to take some time to explore this aspect that the show neglects. I hope you guys enjoy! Critiques are always welcome as I try to improve my writing, so please let me know what you think.

The clang of swords beating against shields faded into the back of my mind as the warriors began to run, the tide of their bodies carrying me along like spinning driftwood. My grip tightened around my staff, topped with a longer, more slender imitation of a spearpoint, and I fingered a line of familiar knotwork where my hand lay. 

I ran alongside the edge of the massive army, commanded by the avenging sons of the great Ragnar Lothbrok. As the heathen army clashed with the waiting Saxon forces, the chanting began, ripped from some primal place deep as the marrow of my bones. “Cast fear into the hearts of our enemies, O gods, and embolden our own stout warriors. Allow us to hew many foe-men, felling a forest of foes like the fury of a winter storm.”

At the army's head, the great banner streamed back as the standard-bearer ran. I had woven it with my own hands, each strand a plea to the gods for the glory of the sons of Ragnar—may their names echo through the vast emptiness of the ages. 

The blood-trance clutched me now, the thunder of Thor beating through me until I felt I might burst from the ferocity of it, and so I gave it voice. “Death to those who brought death to Ragnar, basking in triumphant glory in Odin's hall. Victory in battle to his sons, powerful in battle as a storm that sinks sturdy ships. Come, o winged women, and take us in victory to Valhalla. Help us beat back the Saxons, send them in shameful defeat to the cold earth. Thin their blood, send them running before us like beaten hounds. Grant us only victory or Valhalla, the glory of conquest or the honor of Odin's hall. Beat your mighty hammer, O Thor, and make quake the hearts of men.”

When at last the army of the Ragnarssons had gutted all the Saxons abandoned in the sloppy retreat, I sank wearily to my knees, rested my elbows on them, and cradled my head in my hands. Thor's hammer-beats still thudded between my eyes, deafening me to the approach of hoof-beats. A tall, blood-spattered man swung from his lathering chestnut horse and tossed me onto its back as if I weighed as much as a feather. My beautiful carved staff lay on the ground and I reached out for it. He followed my motions and hesitated, fearful of its power. Magic is the work of women, and for men to practice it was forbidden. To touch my staff might bring him bad luck, or make him unmanly. 

He whirled the bearskin off his shoulders and wrapped my staff in that to give it to me. He grabbed the reins, and I swayed with the steady motion of the horse's walk. The leaving blood-trance always left me weak. The man cleared his throat, and I opened my bleary eyes. “You have helped us secure a great victory today. My brothers and I want you to help us with the sacrifice of a stallion to thank the gods. You obviously have their ear.” I nodded, trying to rub the memory of Thor's hammer from behind my eyes, and inspected the man. The long blond braid and powerful shoulders, the easy grace with which he carried himself stirred something in the back of my mind. Bjorn Ironside, the son of Ragnar and the shieldmaiden Lagertha. 

After a few minutes of riding through the camp, noisy with men already in their cups to celebrate their victory, we reached a makeshift altar in the middle of the camp. Ubbe held the bridle of a massive stallion, glossy-black as a raven's wing. The magnificent beast's eyes rolled in his head, tossing his mane and pawing as he sensed his own impending demise. Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye hefted a bloodied battle-ax, eager to deliver the death blow. Ivar the Boneless sat near the stallion, holding the ornately carved wooden bowl that would catch the blood.

I jumped from the horse's back, unsteady as my feet hit the ground, but Bjorn steadied me with a hand on my elbow. “Are you well enough to do this?” He asked, brows knitting together in concern. I nodded, exhaling through pursed lips, and he squeezed my arm protectively. “I will be here to steady you.” Bjorn and I walked to the stallion, his hand still at my elbow. I laid my hand on the beast's strong, sweating neck. His coat was slick and warm beneath my hand, and I could feel the nervous twitching of his muscles.

“Go gladly to Odin's hall, and there greet our mighty king, Ragnar Lothbrok, and tell him of our victory in his name. May the wild red blood in your veins please the gods and give us the courage to fight again tomorrow, unwearied from today's bloodshed. Bestow upon us the boldness of your great heart, the swiftness of your graceful legs, and the strength of your broad back. To Valhalla we send you,carrying our plea for victory with you, and may a Valkyrie honor you and choose you as her own mount.”

I dropped my hand and stepped back as the snake-eyed warrior's ax swung and bit deep, spraying blood from the stallion's neck. The bright red fountain caught the last of the sun's red rays, and Ivar moved his bowl to capture as much of it as he could. The horse faltered, gurgling, before dropping down dead. Ivar held the bowl to me and I took it from him. Holding it in one hand, I dipped my fingers into the warm, slick blood, closing my eyes as I swirled my fingers through it. Bjorn's grip faded from my elbow, but as my sing-song chant began, I didn't notice. The thick iron-and-salt stench of the blood carried me away in a magic all its own. 

Opening my eyes, I turned to face the sons of Ragnar, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in birth order. I began with Bjorn, continuing to sing as I painted their faces—pleading with the gods to grant them victory, courage, and cunning. I knelt to paint Ivar's face, sitting at the end of the line, and felt his breath catch at the stickiness of the blood. I finished my work and stepped back, and with a final, keening cry, I tossed the remaining, thickening blood in a red rain over the brothers. It arched down, thick and cooling, and stuck in their hair and on their shoulders as the first twinkling stars appeared in the darkening sky. I swayed where I stood, the withdrawing magic leaving me sapped of all strength, and Bjorn stepped forward to catch me as I dropped. His arms closing around me were my last sensation as I fell immediately into the thick blackness of magic-induced sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfhild gets stuck with Sigurd's oh-so-charming horse.

I jerked awake sometime later, heart pounding. I lay on a low pallet covered in furs, one of them pulled up around my shoulders. They weren't mine—they smelled of battle, the fearful sweat of men and horses, the iron tang of blood wiped hastily away. I drew a deep breath, hoping to calm myself, and opened my eyes. 

I was in a tent, and no light shone from outside, so it must have been full darkness by now. The remains of a small fire glowed orange in the middle of the tent, weapons and a shield stacked carefully by the entrance flap. A powerfully built man sat by the fire, shoulders hunched. A knife glinted in one hand, and I strained to hear the soft scrape of the knife against the wood in his other hand. I sat, clearing my throat, and he straightened. “You're awake. I brought you to my tent to keep an eye on you.” His dark blue eyes appraised me, curious. “You gave my brothers and I quite a scare.” His voice was quiet. 

I finally found my voice, shrugging, “It is nothing, it only happens sometimes when the magic is too strong. Blood-magic does it especially quickly. It is the price we sorceresses pay for the favor of the gods.” I stretched slowly, feeling his eyes on me still. “How long was I asleep?”

He chuckled lightly. “Well, if you didn't wake up soon, I was going to try to rouse you. We march in about an hour. I had your belongings brought,” he jerked his chin to a bundle beside his stacked weapons. “I thought you might want to freshen up. I have some water heated in the kettle near the fire, and I will leave. I have matters to attend to.”

“Thank you, my lord, and sorry to keep you from your bed,” I stammered, awkward and embarrassed. He shrugged his powerful shoulders, smiling easily at me.

“Do not trouble yourself. I will come to fetch you before we leave.” He stood and ducked through the entrance flap of the tent, leaving me alone. I rose from the pile of furs, shivering lightly in the chill of the late summer predawn. I found the warm water and a clean rag, and quickly washed myself. I pulled the tangles out of my hair with my fingers and hastily rebraided it over one shoulder. I looked down and inspected my clothes. I wore a simple tunic and leather breeches, easy clothes for traveling and much more durable than a dress. They didn't seem too dirty, and due to the scarcity of time for washing clothes while marching with an army, I decided to wear them for another day. Hopefully I would have time to wash them tonight.

I sat by the fire and held my cold hands over it, my grumbling stomach reminding me that I had passed out before I had the chance to eat dinner. I sat in silence for a few more minutes until I heard a voice calling me from outside. I quickly ducked through the tent flap, and found a grinning Bjorn waiting for me. He held the reins of a small bay horse, and he held them out to me with a flourish. “We captured this mare yesterday from the Saxons, and my brothers and I have decided to give her to you for your help in that victory. Also,” he reached into a pouch at his waist, and held out a hunk of crusty bread and a piece of cheese. “you need to eat.”

My mouth watered at the thought, and I took the food gratefully. “Thank you, my lord,” I let out between ravenous bites. He laughed, filling me with warmth, and I smiled shyly back. 

“What will you name her?”

I tilted my head, seriously considering the question, as I finished my breakfast. “Victory,” I told him. He smiled, and cupped his hands to boost me into her saddle. He rested his hand lightly on my thigh as I settled on her back, and he nodded in approval as he looked up at me, withdrawing his hand suddenly.

“She was surely crafted for you,” he told me gruffly. And he whirled away to join his brothers without another word.

...

I had ridden by myself for most of the day, trailing behind and to the side of the army. We moved swiftly, and I had barely gathered a handful of henbane by the time we stopped to make a hasty camp. I left Victory tethered near a group of other horses, and was about to slip away to look for more herbs when I heard a voice hailing me. I cursed internally, sighing, and found myself face to face with Bjorn and his brother, Sigurd. 

Sigurd led a nervous, sweating horse, the whites of his eyes rolling. I inclined my head slightly. “My lords, how may I be of service?” My gaze traveled between the brothers, and as my eyes met Sigurd's, I felt the familiar pull of magic in the pit of my stomach. He was a man born of a volva, the strangeness in his eye marking him as powerful. Had he been born a woman, he undoubtedly would have followed in his mother's footsteps. 

“My horse is ill,” Sigurd explained. “Do you have healing skill?”

“Some, but a farrier would be a better one to tend an ailing horse.” I sighed, crossing my arms. “But I will try, since the magic of your mother is what brought you to seek me out. Though you try, you cannot always resist its pull.” I smiled at the startled look on his face. 

Bjorn laughed, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Not every man can be born of a shieldmaiden,” he teased lightly. The remark stung more than it should have. I tried my best to ignore it, stepping forward and reaching a hand to soothe the nervous horse. I bent and examined his long legs, running my hands down them to check for heat and swelling. I found it on his left foreleg, just above the hoof. “Here. He has a pocket of infection. I can fix this.”

I went to my nearby pack, looking carefully for the right herbs, my wooden mixing bowl, and my small dagger. I found what I needed, scooped up some dirt in my bowl, and added water. I crushed the dried herbs between my fingers, their musty, sweet scent tickling my nose, and I mixed the thick mud together into a poultice. I set the mixture down and picked up the knife. “Both of you should probably hold him for this. He won't like it.” 

Sigurd eyed the knife, the red glint of fading sun along its edge, and looked like he was about to protest. I sent him my best glare, and he seemed to think better of it. At least one of the Ragnarssons knew when to keep his mouth shut.

I knelt and prodded gently at the leg, searching for the exact spot of the infected pocket. My fingers found it after a few moments, and I drew the small knife in a quick slash over it. The skin broke beneath the point, and the stallion screamed in anger. I jumped back quickly, expecting him to lash out but he did no such thing, only trembled. Murmuring soothing nonsense, I bent quickly back to my work and squeezed around the cut. Thick yellow pus oozed out, tinged pink with blood and smelling putrid. I wrinkled my nose, but kept on until the pus stopped coming. I quickly slathered the poultice over the wound. The sweet herbs would draw out any remaining infection, and I wrapped a mostly clean bandage around it.

I stood, wiping my dirty hands on my breeches. I felt like nothing I owned was clean, except my beautiful staff. It gleamed, wiped with a soft cloth every night and oiled every few days. “He will be fine, just don't ride him for a few days. Lead him beside you, or put him with the packhorses.”

“Can't you keep an eye on him, Alfhild? He is in under your care now, after all,” Sigurd wheedled. I sighed, eyeing the horse apprehensively, and nodded shortly. Who was I to go against the wishes of princes? Sigurd handed me the reins, thanking me. “He will not interfere with your plans tonight, I hope?”

“And if he did, would it change your mind, my lord?” I rolled my eyes, already knowing the answer. “I have to weave some protection charms for you and your brothers tonight, but he should be little trouble.”

“That horse is a beast,” Bjorn warned. “His name is Hrafn.” I tied the stallion next to my grazing mare, glaring darkly at him.

“If he harms my mare, his name will be Sacrifice,” I answered. Bjorn laughed, even white teeth flashing in the twilight. 

“Do not bother making a protection charm for Ironside here,” Sigurd teased. “He is already invincible.”

“If I am so untouchable, brother, how is it that I have so many scars? Maybe the snake in your eye interferes with your vision.” Bjorn teased, a warning note running under the light tone. Apparently his nickname—or its apparent untruthfulness—was a raw nerve for the eldest prince.

“Perhaps I shall make his charm first,” I countered. 

“But he is already untouchable!” Sigurd protested.

 

“And what if your untouchable Ironsides is killed? What would your enemies say then?” I challenged. I could not tell them the real reason my fingers itched to weave his charm, the reason that brought me to the Saxon land in the first place.

Sigurd seemed to consider this, then nodded. “I suppose you are right.”

Bjorn squinted off toward the horizon, jerking his head toward the front of the army. “We should go. We have plans to discuss with our brothers. Good night, Alfhild.” And scarcely bothering to spare me a glance, the sons of Ragnar walked off. I eyed the grazing black stallion, mentally kicking myself. As if I didn't have enough to worry about, I had to go and get stuck with an extra horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to update this one, and I'm sorry it's kinda crappy! I don't usually do first person, so this is an exercise for me to expand my writing horizons. Please bear with me, and hopefully soon I can find Alfhild's voice and make her a really strong character. Until then, I'm sorry I suck at first person!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bjorn has been keeping a secret.....

My arm jerked in its socket and I shot a dark look at the prince's horse. “You will be the next horse to greet King Ragnar in Valhalla,” I muttered, half-threat and half-promise. The stallion only tossed his head and nickered sweetly at my little mare. I sighed and resumed my scanning. I'd used most of my herbs before the last battle, but finding them behind the army was proving to be an impossible task. We brought destruction everywhere we marched, simply by the sheer number of our force.

Next time, I promised myself, I would bring more herbs. If there was a next time for traveling with a conquering army, that is. Most volur only practiced for a few years once they completed their training. This would be my last significant job before I began to bear children, that I knew, but I also knew I would travel with another army someday. The gods grant strange and sometimes conflicting knowledge to the volur.

I sighed, rolling my shoulder to stretch it after another harsh jerk from Hrafn. This horse would be the death of me. “I told you this horse was not worth the trouble,” the warm voice wrapped around me like a cloak, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into that feeling of safety. 

 

“My lord,” I greeted him, bowing my head and trying my best not to let Hrafn pull me off balance. 

“Bjorn,” he corrected absently, waving his hand in dismissal as he reached out to take the rope from me. I sighed in relief, letting my tired arm hang down by my side to rest. “He seems well. I had not known you were a healer and a volur.”

I laughed, unable to help myself. “Less a healer. I can mend small things, but most are beyond my small skill.”

Bjorn looked around us, at the army ahead and the empty country stretching behind and to the sides. He did not look at me. “I took a wound during the last battle,” he admitted. “But since I am thought to be untouchable in battle, I told no one.” I opened my mouth to scold him, the foolish habit of an older sister that probably shouldn't be applied to sons of kings. “I could not let my brothers see me wounded, nor the men of the army.” Always the pride with men! I sighed. How close was this man to dying for his pride?

“Alright. Then you will help me gather herbs. When the last of the men are over that hill, I will check your wound.” I slowed my mare even further and Bjorn followed my lead, glancing nervously at the men in the rear of the army.

“What will they say that we stay behind, out of sight?” My face burned at the question, but he continued. “Do you think they will know I am wounded?”

“No. They'll probably think we're having sex.” I became suddenly very interested in the way my fingers gripped the reins. “You can encourage that rumor. To keep the suspicion off your wound. I will probably need to tend it again anyway. That's a convenient excuse for you to keep coming to see me.”

He tilted his head, considering this. “Maybe it will make them fear you less.”

I laughed, a sort of bitter chuckle. I am a sorceress, men will always fear me. It is the way. If anything, it will add to your reputation if they think you're brave enough to lie with me.”

“Sigurd wants to bed you,” Bjorn told me, laughing. 

“I am not his fate.” 

The laughter died on Bjorn's lips as he met my steady gaze. “I know. But he does not.” His voice was serious, husky; it made the breath stick in my throat.

“The army is far enough away,” I told him, abruptly changing the subject. His blue eyes scanned the hill and he nodded, satisfied. I suppressed my relieved sigh at having distracted him and dismounted from my horse. Bjorn sat down before me, holding his sword-arm out to me. I pushed back the long blue sleeve of his tunic, revealing a dirty linen bandage stained with blood dried brownish-pink. He didn't wince as I unwound the bandage. I inched closer to him, sitting up on my knees to see his arm better.

The cut snaked from the back of his wrist to the inside of his elbow; I guessed he'd twisted in an attempt to block the blow. The cut was broad and long, shallow in most places. It was deepest at the tender skin below his elbow, but from the way he moved nothing major had been severed. He was lucky, warriors are more delicate than they like to believe. In a world where a single blow can steal a man's life, the only thing that keeps him marching to battle is belief in his own invincibility. 

I ground some herbs to dust using the sheath of my knife and my wooden mixing-bowl, added a little water from the pouch I carried, and set the bowl down to let the mixture thicken into paste. I splashed some water onto Bjorn's arm, watching it run pink-tinged and dirty over his pale Northern skin. I gently wiped away the water with a rag from my pack.

I felt Bjorn's eyes on me as I picked up the bowl and stirred the paste with my forefinger, testing the consistency. It was ready. I hesitated, the paste on my finger. “Do you want a rag to bite on?”

“I am no unblooded boy,” he scoffed. I shrugged and began smearing the paste over the wound, careful as I could be. I was uncertain of my healing skill, but surely I could not kill one who was unkillable? I glanced up. The prince was pale but quiet. I averted my eyes back to my work, knowing instinctively he would hate the pity in them. I finished applying the poultice and wrapped a clean bandage from my pack around his arm, then pulled his sleeve back down to hide it.

I reached into the pouch sewn into my skirts and pulled out an apple I'd been saving for my little mare. The prince took it and his even white teeth pierced the firm red skin easily. He took a large bite and offered it to me. I shook my head. “Eat, and then we will join the army again.” I smirked at him, his vulnerability, his trust in me making me bold. “Has it been long enough, my lord, or should we wait longer to impress the men with your skill?”

The great bear of a man chortled with laughter, nearly choking on his apple. “I impress everyone with my skill.” He shot me a wink, and my knees would have turned to water if I'd been standing. He finished the apple and tosses the core toward the treeline as he stood. He reached out his left hand and pulled me to my feet. Maybe it was just my own imagination, but it seemed he held to my hand just a little longer than he needed to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bjorn comes to Alfhild for help, and their fates are sealed.

“Did Hrafn behave himself today?” Sigurd asked, voice warm. I was happily drying my herbs, thrilled I had finally been able to find some. Bjorn had ordered one of the young soldiers to help me, and he seemed to fear my displeasure more than he feared meeting Saxons by himself. He'd emptied his pockets of the herbs and shoved them into my hands, leaving me to call my thanks at his retreating back. The young ones were always more afraid of me, didn't seem to realize yet that I was a person, too. 

I turned to face the prince with a smile, and my stomach dropped to see Bjorn accompanying him. “My lords,” I greeted them. “Hrafn is doing very well, my prince, probably the day after tomorrow you can ride him again.” He nodded, silent, and Bjorn sighed.

“Alfhild,” he began, voice low. His tone had me looking at him immediately, alarmed. He was paler than normal and sweat glistened on his forehead. I grabbed his arm without a word but he pulled back, shaking his head. “Too many people.”

I sighed, exasperated, biting the inside of my cheek. “Let us take Hrafn to stretch his legs,” Sigurd suggested. “I want to see how he's moving.” I shot him a grateful look and he smiled, already reaching to untie his stallion's rope. Bjorn shrugged my hand off his arm as we followed Sigurd and Hrafn. The big stallion was feeling better today, prancing and pawing in eagerness. 

Bjorn swayed beside me, unsteady but still refusing help until we were out of sight. When the back of the last straggling soldier could no longer be seen, he finally leaned on my shoulder. I staggered under his weight, and we slowly sank to the crushed, sweet-smelling grass. I couldn't have dragged his massive body further even if he'd asked me to. Thankfully, he decided we were far enough. I shrugged his arm, thick with corded muscle, off my shoulder and yanked the sleeve back.

Annoyance flashed through me as I saw the blood seeping through the bandages, smelled the tang of it mixed with something that made my stomach clench. “You should have found me sooner,” I hissed, unraveling the bandages. He grunted and avoided my eyes as I looked up at him. “Thank the gods I'm not a man and don't have to suffer for my pride,” I muttered darkly. 

I grabbed a rag and scraped off the hardened poultice as gently as I could. He flinched, the most I'd ever seen him give in to pain, and my frustration softened into something more like compassion. I suppressed a sigh as the last of the poultice flaked off his arm. Sigurd led his nervous stallion closer; I shot him the darkest look I could manage and he turned away. 

I hated the way blood and pus oozed slowly from the wound, hated the angry red of the edges. It had started to close a little since the last time I'd tended it, but it looked worse than ever. I pursed my lips, thinking of the best course of action. The time for poultices alone was past. My own healing skill, I was uncertain of. The gods, though. The gods could heal, if they chose. 

Bjorn hissed and jerked back as I dragged a finger down the his wound. I looked up at him, brows raised, but my biting comment died on my lips. “Sorry,” I murmured, voice soothing. I wished I could comfort him, but first I needed to be sure he would live, that he would not die for the pride of his nickname, Ironside. Untouchable, and yet sitting before me in agony.

I painted the sharp lines of the rune sowilo for good health. My finger skimmed across the wound again, I barely felt his flinch this time. Next came kenaz, summoning the fires of healing, of regeneration. The final shape I painted in his tainted blood was laguz, to bring the gentle coolness of spring rains to strengthen his body after the fires of kenaz burned the illness away. The spirits sang in my ears, I could feel them like wind on my skin—there and yet not, untouchable, but mine for the commanding. 

I remembered the dreams I'd had that led me to this avenging army, remembered the way Bjorn's name sounded falling from the lips of some yet-unborn skald: Bjorn Jarnsida, King of Uppsalla and Sweden, father of kings, explorer, warrior. He was to be remembered. 

I sealed his fate when I took a small knife from the belt around my waist and sliced along the lifeline that ran long and steady through my palm. My finger swirled in my own blood, mixing with Bjorn's blood drying on my skin. I painted a final rune on the smooth back of his hand, a small, perfect expanse to command the favor of the gods. Tiwaz. Honor, justice, leadership. 

I sealed his fate with my own blood. He would be worthy of his name. Jarnsida. 

But he sealed my fate when those bright blue eyes met mine. I could not hide the shaking of my hands as I wrapped his arm in fresh bandages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this story isn't my best because it's in first person and that's my weakest link haha, but it's one of the first things I started writing and it's sort of my baby. I hope you guys are enjoying it anyway!


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